d the houses of
Parliament and fought the police. At length a regiment of mounted
soldiers charged them. Barnaby thought this brave work and held his
ground valiantly, even knocking one soldier off his horse with the
flagstaff, until others dragged him to a place of safety.

That night the drunken mob, grown bolder, tore down, pillaged and burned
all the Catholic chapels within their reach, and, with Hugh and Dennis
the hangman, poor crazed Barnaby ran at its head, covered with dirt, his
garments torn to rags, singing and leaping with delight. He thought he
was the most courageous of all, that he was helping to destroy the
country's enemies, and that when the fighting was over he and his mother
would be rich and she would always be proud that he was so noble and so
brave.

The golden cups, the candlesticks and the money they stole from the
burned chapels Hugh and the hangman buried under a heap of straw in the
tavern which they had made their headquarters, and left Barnaby to guard
the place. He counted this a sacred trust, and when soldiers came to
arrest all in the building he refused to fly in time. He even fought
them single-handed and felled two before he was knocked down with the
butt of a musket and handcuffed.

While he had been resisting, Grip had been busily plucking away the
straw from the hidden plunder; now his hoarse croak showed them the
hoard and they unearthed it all. At length, closing ranks around
Barnaby, they marched him off to a barracks, from which he was taken to
Newgate Prison, where a blacksmith put irons on his arms and legs, and
he and the raven were locked in a cell.

While Barnaby was guarding the tavern room, Hugh, egged on by his
master, Sir John Chester, had proposed the burning of The Warren, where
Haredale still lived with Emma, his niece, and Dolly Varden, now her
companion.

The crowd agreed gladly, since Haredale was a Catholic and that same day
in London had given evidence to the police against the rioters who had
burned the chapels. They rushed away, marched hastily across the fields,
tied the old host of the Maypole Inn to his chair, drank all the liquor
they could find and then rushed to The Warren. There they put the
servants to flight, burst in the doors, staved the wine-casks in the
cellar, split up the costly furniture with hammers and axes and set fire
to the building, so that it soon burned to the ground.

Haredale, in London, saw the red glare in the sky and rode p